


Baltimore

by backwards_silver



Category: Homeland
Genre: Dar finding him in Baltimore, Quinn's Backstory, shady government business, somebody give quinn a fucking hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:27:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25816534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/backwards_silver/pseuds/backwards_silver
Summary: Dar finding Quinn in Baltimore at 16, a foster kid and a street kid in dire straights, desperate enough to be recruited by shady men with vague government ties.
Relationships: Carrie Mathison & Peter Quinn, Carrie Mathison/Peter Quinn, Dar Adal & Peter Quinn, Dar Adal/Peter Quinn
Comments: 10
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> When I watched 5x12 and heard Dar talk about finding Quinn when he was 16, a foster kid in Baltimore, I wondered what kind of grim situations Quinn must've been in to be a candidate for Dar's missions, and what prompted him to such a "natural" as Dar said. I have some dark backstory for the attempted murder that's mentioned in this fic, but I'm not sure if I'll explore that further, everything surrounding Dar and Quinn's relationship is pretty dark and vague, but I wanted to shed some light on a possible scenario that could've started his career with Dar.
> 
> Question for ya'll: Do you think Quinn willingly (as willingly as a 16 yr old kid can) joined Dar's group, or that he joined through coercion to get out a much worse situation?

Dar sat in a cold, dark room in the Baltimore police precinct, checking his watch every few minutes, waiting, watching, listening. The door swings open suddenly and the officer leads in a sullen looking teenager, scruffy brown hair and sharp blue eyes. His face is well-structured, somehow young but older than his age at the same time. The boy is glaring straight at him, making a point, as he’s sat in a chair across from him, hands chained in his lap. It’s a good thing, too, because Dar’s sure he’d be trying to strangle someone if they weren’t.

The boy’s clothes are smeared with dried bloodstains, evidence of a struggle in the dirt stains on his jeans, the blood on his white t-shirt a ghastly contradiction. He’s wearing a black hoodie, too, a little too big, unzipped, probably thrown on him sometime after the crime. The kid looks every bit the horror show the officers had described, his case worker had a tight, grim expression when Dar passed her in the hall, she was thoroughly panicked, clearly at the end of her rope. But this is no leering killer, unstable and crazy, Dar can tell, the kid sitting in front of him is watchful, his steely glare missing nothing, tense like he’s a bomb about to burst, ready to strike or flee at a second’s notice. His hands are trembling ever so slightly in his lap, Dar notices, even though the rest of his posture tells a vastly different story, one of bravery, an expression that says he gives no fuck’s.

Dar looks down at the boy’s chained, blood-stained hands, and then back up to meet his eyes, smiling calmly. The boy looks even angrier at that. His eyes alone have an impressive ability to hold boatloads of fire in them, gaze so piercing it might’ve made Dar uncomfortable had he not been so used to these situations. This was a standoff, and he was asserting his ground, body language carefully relaxed, like he was resting on a beach somewhere, instead of sitting on an uncomfortable chair in a police interrogation room.

“Hello, what’s your name, kid?” He’s still smiling, that polite but decimating smile he gives to show he’s clearly not to be fucked with. The boy is still glaring daggers, refuses to answer, instead his eyes take a brief flick over Dar’s body, his clothes, his watch, the open, unconcerned posture he’s sitting in. Dar watches as his eyebrows furrow slightly, the gears turning in his head as he silently calculates, and it’s a stare he’s seen before, distrust, fear molded into white-hot anger. Likely the same anger that made him nearly kill a man earlier that day.

“You can trust me, I’m not a cop.” He smiles again, and that razor-sharp gaze is back on his eyes now, not a single drop of emotion in his eyes to indicate that he believes the statement. “You’re not a cop, so what are you selling?” The boy finally speaks, his voice low and controlled for his age, but the same fire from his eyes is in his tone, cutting and suspicious. “I’m not selling anything.” Dar smiles a little more, pleased with the fact that he’d gotten a reaction at last.

“Then what are you buying?” The kid hasn’t looked away for a second, still glaring, still deathly still, tense save for the nervous tapping of his right knee, barely noticeable, but Dar clocks it before the kid can hide it. He knows the implications of the question, almost chuckles at his bluntness, but he just gives an impassive shrug instead. “I’m not buying, either, just visiting.” He waits as the boy works through that answer, knows it’s so vague and bullshit that it’ll set him off more. “Yeah _fucking_ right.” The kid spits, his ice cold stare daring Dar to tell him the truth, but it only enhances the enjoyment of the game. “You’re no lawyer, not a social either, so why the fuck are you here?”

Dar smirks, he’s getting somewhere now, he’s peaked the boy’s suspicions. And given the way he’s been thoroughly eyed since the moment the boy came in, the kid’s already coming up with possible scenarios for why he’s here. “I could be your lawyer. You don’t know.” He says casually, curious as to whether the boy will stand his ground or doubt himself. “You’re not.” The boy snaps back. With one passive nod, Dar continues, “So tell me, what am I?”

The kid looks him over again, settling back on his face, narrowing his eyes before answering. “You’ve got money, but you’re not a businessman. Definitely not a politician, your lies are shit. So you work in government.” He cocks his head, satisfied with his assessment. Dar raises his eyebrows, giving nothing away. The boy is all insolence, and in most cases Dar would be want to smack the challenge off his face, the thought of a teenager mouthing off to him, but he doesn’t. The boy acted sharp and unaffected, but Dar could see that underneath he was fighting the urge to panic, pushing down every natural inclination to break down after the events of the last twenty-four hours.

Dar is pleased with the turn of events so far so he works his next angle. “I see. Tell me about your family, kid.” This gets another dark glower from the boy, and Dar knows he’s hit a sore spot. The kid’s jaw tenses and sets. He looks away fleetingly before answering, “You already met them.” He says quietly, still sharp but just a tad less confident than before.

“The Truman’s?” Dar raises his eyebrows, sweeps his hand in a dismissive motion, “They’re not your family anymore.” It’s an undeniable point and they both know it. The boy swallows hard, his stare not leaving Dar’s face, tension boiling beneath the surface of his glare. “How about your real family? Your father?” Dar asks in a calm tone, casual, like he’s making acquaintances. Of course, he already knows all of these things, he’s thoroughly read every part of the teen’s file, front to back. The boy’s eyes darken, his gaze shuttering into a hard stare, even more guarded than before. “Dead.” He says, sounding emotionless but Dar can see the wall he’s put up to shut out the pain. Dar nods, “And your mother?” The kid’s eyes narrow again, suspicious, but he chooses to answer. “I don’t know her.”

The answer is a half-truth, Dar knows. His mother was a drug addict, gone by the time he was five, one too many abusive boyfriends taking her further and further down the dark road she was heading until she eventually overdosed in a shitty apartment in Rosedale, something the boy is likely unaware of. “She’s dead too, isn’t she?” He asks passively, like he’s stating a known fact. He notes the way the kid’s eyes flash with horror for a moment before shutting down again, trembling just a little more, this time with anger and shock, even if it’s barely noticeable. “How do you know?” He seethes, glowering. Dar raises his eyebrows in put-on surprise, “I assumed you were aware. She died of an overdose a few years ago.” He looks at the boy in posed sympathy, watching as a mixture of emotions cross his face swiftly before he swallows, hard, and looks somewhere beyond Dar for a moment, staring at the wall. He’s silent for a minute, and Dar maintains his sympathetic look, waiting.

“You read my file, then.” He says, finally. It’s not a question, just an assertation of the facts. Dar neither agrees nor disagrees, and the kid looks down at his hands for a a few seconds, before looking back up, just the slightest glimmer of pain showing through his gaze, his expression nearly as icy as before.

“What’s your plan, here?” Dar says finally, the real clincher he’s been waiting to ask. The boy straightens a bit, setting his jaw back into a tense line, “What’s it to you?” Dar ignores the question, “I doubt the Truman’s will be giving you much support in the trial, and you have no biological family to speak of.” The boy’s jaw works, he’s not answering. “I assume you’re aware you’re being tried as an adult for attempted murder?” He raises his eyebrows but the kid remains impassive. “I don’t care.” He says tersely, unmoving. Dar gives an unconvinced nod, “You mind telling me why you tried to kill him?” By ‘him’, Dar means Richard Truman, the boy’s latest foster father. “None of your fucking business.” The kid snaps, the daggers back in his eyes, he’s deathly furious but it shows only in his tone and his face.

“Mm.” Dar replies, unshaken, “Attempted murder of an ex-cop isn’t going to be easily forgiven. You’re looking at anywhere from thirty years to life.” He tells him calmly. The boy looks straight at him, expression blank. Dar sighs, expecting a bit more of a reaction from someone whose life could be effectively over, spent behind bars for most his of youth and adult years. Nonetheless, he continues, “Prison is no place for a child.” This gets the kid’s attention, “I’m not a child.” He snaps. “You’re sixteen years old,” Dar says, skepticism in his tone, “You have your entire life ahead of you and you want to spend it in a maximum security prison with the likes of your mother’s boyfriends?” He raises his eyebrows. The boy looks slightly unsettled, a glimpse of nervousness across his face before he reasserts himself, straightening in his seat. Dar lets it sink in for a few moments. The uncertainty of this kid’s future is likely a lot to take in. He’s facing a looming future all alone, completely at the mercy of the system.

Dar would like to know why he was compelled to attack his foster father so viciously, knowing the consequences that would likely occur from it, but the boy doesn’t seem to be in any mood to share. John had been found several miles from his foster home, at least five hour’s worth of walking, barefoot and bloody. His feet and hands had been cut up from the broken glass he’d encountered when he broke out of the second story window of his house after attacking Richard.

His foster mother, Jody, had come home to sounds of a struggle coming from inside and waited, terrified, until it was quiet before coming in to find her husband lying motionless on the floor, pale and bleeding from a blow to the head. The boy had knocked him down with a large ceramic vase, which cracked and cut both of them, then he’d pinned him down with a chokehold on his throat until he was blue in the face, but he ended up having to bolt when Jody’s car pulled into the garage. Richard wasn’t dead when paramedics arrived, but he’d been badly injured and lost oxygen long enough that, given another minute he probably would’ve died. The boy escaped out the window when Jody got inside, climbing down the side of the house onto the lower part of the roof and jumping down, running barefoot into the woods and apparently not stopping until he’d been walking so long he could barely stand, the exhaustion and trauma of the situation taking its toll by the time a bystander called the cops, noting a barefoot, disheveled, bloodied kid walking through the alleys of the city.

The officers hadn’t had much better luck getting a motive out of him, so federal prison it was. He’d be convicted as a murderous, dangerous killer for the rest of his life even if he did get out, and his future would be bleak at best if he survived to the end of his sentence. It was more likely, given his age, attitude and pretty face, he would be in for a lot of trouble and likely a few close calls with death, if not actually dying. Dar’s stomach twisted slightly at the thought, surprising even himself. He didn’t have a sensitive nature, never had, it didn’t mix well with this job. But something about this kid, his fiery determination, the bravery he had staring into the face of his unknown and frankly terrifying future, it was endearing. He was too young to be so hardened, Dar thought, but it would come in perfectly handy for the plans Dar had for him.

The kid spoke finally, after a long, tense silence, “What do you want?” He said, sounding close to resignation.

Dar could see it in his face, desperation. He had no one else to be on his side, no other way out. “It’s not about what I want. It’s about doing something good with your life instead of wasting it away.” He said, voice dripping with conviction. He figured it was the best way to appeal to this kid, through a sense of conviction and duty. The boy hadn’t shown an ounce of self-pity so far, and Dar was pretty sure he wasn’t interested much in money or power, either, he needed something to hold onto, some kind of purpose.

“Something good.” The boy muttered, like he was disbelieving. Dar nodded, “Something important. Working for your country, becoming a soldier, but more than that, an asset, someone that can be anything to anyone for the sake of the mission, to make the country a safer place, a better place. Much better than sitting on your ass rotting away in a jail cell somewhere, waiting to die. What a pathetic waste of life.” He shook his head disgustedly and the boy glared at him with fire once again, but it was damped with curiosity. He wanted to believe it, Dar could tell, he was skeptical but intrigued.

“Like what?” He asked, his voice cautiously questioning.

“You’ll find out soon enough, but first I need to know you’re on board. I can’t have soldiers that don’t know what they want or pansy ass little boy that run at the first sight of danger.” He said, appealing to the challenge he’d already seen in the boy. The kid stared him down, clearly giving his answer as to how he felt about that assumption. Dar smiled, this time it was a smile of victory, but just just enough so as not to scare the boy away. “What do you say, you willing to serve your country?” He asked, leaning forward slowly in his chair, hands clasped in front of him.

The boy swallowed, nodding almost imperceptibly, “Am I going to jail?” He asked quietly, eyes wide and more worried than Dar had seen the entire time. Dar shook his head, “Not if you accept my deal. You’ll have a short sentencing and then all of this will be over like it never happened.” The kid narrowed his eyes furiously, “You can’t do that.” But Dar just shrugged, “Trust me, I most certainly can.” He said, a hint of smugness in his voice.

“But I still did it. Nobody can make that go away.” The kid sounded more somber now, he was staring at his hands, at the blood still dried on his clothes, his own blood and that of the man he tried to kill. “No,” Dar agreed, “But you can make up for it with other actions, and in return protect thousands of people. And no one will remember this, it won’t even be on your record.” The kid hadn’t looked up, but he’d listened, “No one but me.” He said so quietly it was almost a whisper. Dar said nothing, this kid was clearly haunted, more haunted than many of the true criminals Dar had seen over the course of his career.

“Get cleaned up, kid, we’ve got places to be.” He said finally, pushing himself to stand. He rounded the table to where the boy sat, frozen in his thoughts, and placed a hand on his shoulder, firm enough to make the kid snap his head up in surprise. Dar could feel tension running through him like a current but he didn’t budge, staring him down, making a point.

“Show me you’ve got what it takes and you just might have a future, after all.” He told him, holding his stare for another tense minute before walking away and vanishing out the door, leaving the boy alone once again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of John's past, mixed with the events of what happens after Dar gets him out of custody.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn, guys, this was quite a thing to write. I'm so intrigued by the possibilities of Quinn's past, and what made him the way he is, as well as filling in the lines between the things we learned from Dar over the seasons. Let me know your thoughts! And what you think Quinn's past might've looked like, in your head.

The passing days for John consisted of days spent in medical and psychological examinations, interrogation rooms and holding cells. He felt like he was passing through a dream, place to place, question after question. He wasn’t really there, he was there in body but his mind was somewhere else, drifting through his past and the possibility of his future. He didn’t want to consider what the strange government man had wanted in return for getting him out of jail. The fact that the man had somehow cherry picked this random criminal foster kid and decided that he was the one for whatever important mission he had, was disturbing.

The day for his hearing finally came, and he wondered if what the man in the suit had meant what he said about the hearing being short with no charges on his record. He didn’t even know the man’s fucking name.

The courtroom was scarce of people, a few officers and a judge, the man from the other day was sitting with a few other men in suits, lawyers most likely, stern and glaring. He was escorted to his seat and sat down, eyes drifting around the room on each person, mind immediately wandering to which of them were hiding something. He figured the man in the suit was by far the most dubious, he couldn’t read him nearly as well as he wanted to, but he got a swirling feeling in his stomach when he saw him again, nausea mixed with fear.

The judge was saying something, droning on about consequences and second chances. John wasn’t listening, he had the strongest feeling of vertigo, the sounds in his ears sounded as if they were wading underwater. Someone called his name again and he snapped out of his trance, still not fully present, but alert, tense.

“Mr. Lewis.” The man with the gavel was staring at him, perturbed, “Shall we postpone this hearing? Do you have somewhere you’d rather be?” John shook his head, didn’t trust his voice to speak.

The man from the interrogation room was looking at him, amusement mixed with mild concern on his face. John didn’t meet his gaze.

After a few more symbolic words about being given a chance at redemption, and the necessity of great people working in service of the country, the judge dismissed the court, calling the case closed.

John couldn’t move for the longest minute, he was frozen, rooted to his seat, until that man came up behind him, “John, let’s go.” He hated the way he no choice now but to automatically listen and obey, like he owed the man. It infuriated him, this man knew nothing about him and yet somehow acted like he’d know him all his life. The expectant entitlement he acted with made John seethe inside, alarmed, uncomfortable. This was his life now.

The man didn’t ask John any questions, merely explained a few things here and there as they left the courtroom. He collected John's few remaining possessions when he was checked out, and returned them to him, and one of his men gave John a change of clothes to wear.

Being outside for the first time in a week felt strange, everything was too bright and noisy, the wind outside was sharp and cold, stinging at his face and hands. He’d hardly said a single word besides the necessary yes and no when he’d gone through exams and his hearing. When he was shown to the backseat of a black SUV, he climbed in and tried to ignore the sinking pit in his stomach that he had no clue where he was going, or who these people were that were taking him there.

The drive was silent, for which John was grateful. He stared at the passing roads, trying to place where he was, calculating where he was and how long they'd been driving. The heat was on in the car and yet John was shivering, he was sitting on his hands, trying to bring so warmth back into them. It was like his whole body had rebelled, gone into some sort of hibernation where it cut off any extraneous functions, making his brain run on autopilot, and his body freeze in a solid block of fear and shock. 

Outwardly, though, John didn't show a single thing. The man offered him water, asked if he was hungry, if he needed anything, he shook his head. "What's your name? For real." He asked, instead.

The man bit back a pleased smile, "Dar. You've been waiting to ask that all day, haven't you?" It was a rhetorical question. John narrowed his eyes, "Dar? What kind of name is that? Your alias? Who do you work for?" Dar's expression didn't change, he still looked placidly amused.

"You certainly have a lot of questions, John. Answer me this, why did you try to murder Richard Truman? You tell me that, and I'll tell you about myself." John swallowed hard, eyes flashing with dark fury briefly before he looked away, back out the window, jaw tensed in a firm line. "Because he was a vile bastard."

Dar sniffed, "The world is full of those, John, but that's not the real reason, is it?"

John didn't answer, he didn't ask anything else either. So the conversation was done for the time being. John resumed staring out the window at the city passing by, and Dar turned in his seat, returning to answering phone calls and directing his driver.

Some time later, the car had come to a stop, and John woke up with a startled jolt, shocked that he had drifted off during the ride. His stomach dropped again, the realization that he'd missed every opportunity to find out where he was, and how they'd gotten here. He felt his throat tightening with panic. 

Dar's men were rounding the SUV to open the door, positioned in front of him like he posed a flight-risk. John stepped out of the car, slowly, hesitant. He looked around at the place, a wide, sprawling property in the middle of a forest, deep in the woods somewhere. The house in front of him looked enormous, like an estate in the middle of a campground. John was confused, this was supposed to be his induction into military service, Dar had said, a beginning of _doing things for your country_. But here he stood in front of a massive log cabin, complete with multiple decks and glass windows, a laughable mixture of modern wealth and architecture mixed with simple living. 

John followed the men into the house, scanning the areas around the building as he did. There were several trails leading into the forest, the amount of coverage with trees and bush was enough to make him feel as small as an ant. The property would be practically invisible to any outsider, a perfectly place of anonymity and secrecy. John tried to ignore the white-hot warning in his gut, the feeling of being enveloped into a tidal wave, pulled in so deep no one could hear the screams.

Instead, he focused on his surroundings. His eyes trailed over the rack of coats hanging by the door, winter coats, many of them black or camouflage, pairs of boots lined up against the wall in orderly fashion, a stark contrast to the mess of upended couch cushions and pillows sitting on the floor of the living room, a spacious room to the left of the entryway, several large couches, not a spot of dirt on the bright white carpet. John got the feeling of intruding on someone's personal space. If he didn't know any better, it could be the home of a happy little family, at home for the day, relaxing in their living room, cooking in their kitchen.

The kitchen was next, he passed it but didn't go in, he could hear voices of varying volumes talking a mile a minute, plenteous swearing and laughing, sounds of pots clanking and knives chopping. He saw hardwood floors, a giant dining room table, but that was all. He kept following Dar's men. 

At some point, Dar had disappeared, it was just John and the two men he'd been left with. His babysitters, or tour guides, as the case would be.

They climbed a massive staircase, ending on a floor with multiple doors, some of them open, most of them shut. It reminded him of the boarding school he'd gone to, three years prior, a horrible place with memories he'd rather forget. One of the loneliest places he'd ever been, save for one friend who hadn't left his side, the two of them closer than blood until John was eventually brought back home. He'd left that family shortly afterwards, and he was glad to, they apparently couldn't stand him so much that they sent him away for six months without ever checking in on him. 

"You'll be in this room," One of the men told him, when they reached a door towards the end of the wide hallway. He wondered if all the rooms were the same, and if he'd be forced to have roommates like he did in boarding school. There was only one bed, he was relieved.

The man was gesturing for him to go inside, so he did. The walls were an off-white color, various abstract pictures on the wall as if someone had actually taken the time to decorate, to make this space their own. But that was about as homey as it got. The bed was wider and far more comfortable-looking than many that John had slept in, covered with a black matching comforter set, something that had always been considered a luxury when he was growing up. No one had money to spare for _matching bedsets_ for the foster kid. And he'd never cared before, but it was a reminder that this place was fueled by money, lots of it. 

"Come downstairs when you're settled in," The man ordered, his voice commanding and no-nonsense, like the stern set of his face and the cropped cut of his hair. John nodded, and he left. 

The floor was carpet-free, for which John was glad. Carpet was too plush, too fancy for his liking. He liked the feel of cold, hard ground under his feet, the sound it made when he did jumping jacks and burpees to release some of his anger in his old foster homes. He stepped cautiously towards the bed and set down his small bag, filled with the only things he'd cared to have. After he was booked into the prison, the Truman's house had been searched and a few of his items had been brought back, some clothes and books, among them a journal filled to the brim with scribblings of words and half-finished sketches. He'd also been overwhelmed with relief to get one book in particular back, a copy of Great Expectations, given to him by the one and only woman he'd ever considered a mother. 

Her name was Grace Fletcher, and she was a blonde, petite woman with a radiant smile and bright green eyes, her hair short and always curly, framing her face like sunlight, he'd always thought. He was seven when he went to live with her and her husband, and it had been a dream come true. She was always so happy, glowing, practically, with this unquenched joy oozing out of her, constantly lavishing her praises and affections on John in a way he'd never known. He felt like the center of her world when she smiled at him, cupping his face in her hands and kissing his nose, always telling him he was her favorite boy in the whole wide world. 

He would've done anything for her, she made his heart feel like it was going to burst from happiness with her hugs, the excited exclamations she gave when he brought home good grades or told her about a friend he'd made at school. Her happiness was contagious, and it bubbled over into him. His birthday came, and she gave him a brand new book, wrapped in shiny blue paper, one that she said was her father's favorite. He'd never had a brand new book of his own, so he adopted it immediately, and read it over and over until he could finally understand the words, looking up the ones he didn't know in a dictionary or asking Grace.

It was probably the happiest he'd ever been. For a year, anyway. One day, he came home from school early to change his clothes and play soccer with some of the neighborhood kids, and he heard Grace in the kitchen with Todd, talking in hushed tones. He inched towards the kitchen, assuming they didn't know he was there. And they didn't, they kept on talking. He could hear something about a 'test' and a 'miracle' and then Todd asked "Are you sure?". Grace had said yes, and then she was squealing and Todd was swinging her around in a hug, both of them laughing and crying, over the moon about something. 

John had snuck away without them noticing, but he thought about it for the next several days. Neither Grace nor Todd said anything about the moment he'd witnessed for a week, and he wondered why. They'd never kept secrets with him before, not that he could remember, anyway. Grace had told him many times that he was her little miracle boy, an answer to prayer, and he'd always wondered what it meant, but it made him happy and she always said it like it was a good thing, so he never asked. But now, she'd used that word about something else, and wanted to know what it was. 

Another week passed before they finally sat him down. He'd been noticing a change in them. Ever since the conversation in the kitchen, Grace had been a little bit quieter, still smiling, but not as much at him. There were a few times when he caught her just staring at him when he was sitting at the table, doing his homework, or when they drank hot cocoa and watched a movie. He'd put his head on her arm like he always did, but she didn't run her fingers through his hair like she normally did, she just watched him, quietly, a sad frown on her face.

When Grace said that she and Todd needed to talk to him, he already felt dread. He wasn't sure what it meant, any of it, but he'd had many 'talks' with adults before, and none of them were ever good. He sat, stiff, in the chair across from them, and Grace looked worriedly at Todd before she started in. 

"John," She started, taking his little hand in hers. He quickly snatched it away, fear and anger coiling up his spine, anxiety building in his stomach. He wanted her to spit it out, whatever she wanted to say, there was nothing he hated more than being lied to by adults that he was supposed to look at as parents. She looked hurt, and he briefly felt bad, but he'd already done it, and he knew that whatever conversation was going to happen would change them forever, anyway.

"Look, John, you know how I always say that you're my miracle boy?" Her voice was honeyed and smooth, filled with the sweet, tender softness he used to love. Now it felt like sugar to drown the poison. He stared at her, dark. "Well..." She stared down at her clasped hands for a moment, swallowing. Todd put a hand on her back and rubbed it, looking sympathetically at John. He didn't meet his gaze.

"I'm going to have a baby," She finally said, looking up at him with a tearful smile. He kept staring, didn't understand what that had to do with anything. 

"We've wanted a baby for a long, long time, and when we couldn't have one, we decided to take care of other children until we could afford to adopt," She continued. "And then we got you! And you were the best, most wonderful little boy I could have possibly asked for, right, Todd?" She turned to Todd and he nodded, that somber smile directed back John. John stared icily between the two of them, silent. 

"But now," She turned to look back at him, and he knew worst part was coming. "Now, we can't afford to have both of you. A new baby is very expensive, and we didn't plan for this to happen, otherwise we would've never, _ever_ done this...but...You'll have to live with some other people for a little while."

She saw the look on his face, quickly moved to reassure him, "Just for a little while, just until we can get enough money to have both of you." John was blinking hard, trying to suppress the urge to cry. He'd never cried in front of them, despite the countless times Grace had told him it was a perfectly normal and acceptable thing to do, that everyone needed to cry sometimes. Even at eight years old, John had already learned that crying was never a good thing, especially not something to do in public. It was a sign of weakness, and weakness made you a target. 

"John?" Grace reached out her hand again, palm open to take his. He kept his hands in his lap, staring hard at her hand on the table, focusing on it, trying to will himself not to let any tears out. Instead of answering, he pushed back his chair and left the kitchen before she could catch him.

"John! Wait!" He heard her calling as he disappeared out the front door, running so fast he could hear his heart pounding in his head. He didn't stop until he'd reached a clearing in the woods somewhere, far away from any prying eyes and fake sympathy. There, he cried, silently, and then pounded the nearest tree for all he was worth, until his hands stung and his eyes were blurry. 

He didn't come home that night, he heard voices calling his name when the sun went down, but he hid deeper in the forest until he couldn't hear them anymore. He came back the next morning, cold and stiff from the night. Grace was frenzied when she saw him, immediately wrapped him in a tight hug, but he pulled away at the first chance he could.

"What happened to you?" She asked, examining his scratched-up hands and swollen eyes. He didn't say anything, only took his hands out of hers and walked inside. She sighed and followed him in, up the stairs to his room, and stood in the doorway while he started packing his clothes. 

"John," She said softly, "I can help you, if you want. You know Casey's not coming until tomorrow, okay?" He shook his head, kept packing. Casey was his social worker, the one he'd had for the past two years, a no-nonsense, strict woman who always wore her dark hair in a severe bun, to match her personality. John didn't care if she wasn't coming until next year, he just packed his things. He was leaving, there was no way around it.

After dinner, John went back to his room, despite Grace's attempts to engage him in conversation or give him the physical affection she used to. He didn't want any of it, felt sick to his stomach all night long. 

The next morning, bright and early, Casey showed up in her stern frown, holding binder and a clipboard filled with papers for Grace and Todd to sign. John waited outside, sitting on the front steps, watching the kids he'd played soccer with as they waited for the bus, laughing and smiling, with their parents standing in the door, watching protectively until they were out of sight. He'd never had that until now, the Fletcher's were the only family he'd had that took the time to wave him goodbye on his way to school, but today the bus came and went without him, and the neighborhood continued as usual. Like he was never even there in the first place.

When Casey came outside, she implored John to say goodbye, but he didn't, merely stood up and took his bag to the car, just one bag, for an entire year's worth of memories. She joined him in the car and drove away, Grace and Todd watched like they used to do when he left for school, but this time he wished they wouldn't.

"They really loved you, you know," Casey told him, her thick southern accent full of somberness. He didn't reply. He'd heard that line before, from his mother when she told him his father died, _he really loved you, he did._ And then again, later, by his very first case worker, when he was informed that his mother had run off with one of her shitty boyfriends, and that was why he hadn't seen her in a week, that was why she never came back to pick him up from pre-school, three days in a row, until finally his teacher called CPS. " _She really loved you, Johnny, you know that, right?"_ Tina had asked him. He just nodded. 

Hearing what Casey said about Grace and Todd, sitting in the backseat of the car, leaving his fourth home in eight years, John thought, _if that's what love is, I don't want any part of it_. 

In the present, John was sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at clothes that weren't his, in another strange, unfamiliar place with unfamiliar faces, and he couldn't shake the feeling that something was different about this place. That the stakes were higher than they'd ever been before. That, like it or not, he might have finally found a place where he wouldn't leave after six months, where he'd have some purpose other than just being a throwaway child, living off the pity of strangers.

Regardless, the pit stayed in John's stomach as he unpacked his things, hiding his book under his mattress, one thing foster homes and shelters had taught him was that nothing valuable was ever safe, that people weren't to be trusted. So he went downstairs, the ever-present panic in the back of his mind from the things he'd been through in the last seventy-two hours, and resolved to make the best of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got some more ideas for this story, but they're pretty fucking dark, because I'm pretty certain that Quinn's past wasn't rainbows and kittens, so if ya'll are game to go down that road, let me know, cause I've got some drafts but I'm trying to decide right now.


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